


You Remain So Messy

by chillydown



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Hand Jobs, Hate Sex, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Topson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:09:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27643931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chillydown/pseuds/chillydown
Summary: And so, Hickey lay on the floor of the tent, hands behind his head, as he stared up at the woven canvas of the tent above his head. In any other situation, he would be close to content. But there was one incredible annoyance with this current situation: Thomas Jopson, sitting near the opening to the tent, rifle in his hand.---2.5k words of handjobs, Jopson being tired of Hickey's shit, and unexpected cockblocks. Set during the events of "Terror Camp Clear" but with a slight acceleration of the timeline. Written for The Terror 2020 bingo - "Terror Camp Clear"
Relationships: Cornelius Hickey/Thomas Jopson
Kudos: 13
Collections: The Terror Bingo





	You Remain So Messy

Cornelius Hickey was remarkably calm for a man about to die. And why shouldn’t he be calm? He already had some good men on his side. Tozer. Gibson. All useful in their own ways, even if Billy was looking a little more gaunt than usual. And when he’ll speak his peace on the gallows, he’d have more men on his side. Because of course Francis fucking Crozier, a man desperately trying to atone for months of failure in a matter of weeks, would grant him the mercy of some final words.

So in his mind, though he knew that certain men hoped otherwise, Hickey knew he wasn’t going to die. There was no use thinking about things like a potential failure because it wouldn’t happen. Simple as that. And so, Hickey lay on the floor of the tent, hands behind his head, as he stared up at the woven canvas of the tent above his head. In any other situation, he would be close to content.

But there was one incredible annoyance with this current situation: Thomas Jopson, sitting near the opening to the tent, rifle in his hand.

Crozier’s little spaniel, always nipping at his heels and staying at his side. A lieutenant now, but only because of his slavish devotion to that man. A lieutenant now, only because no other man would be stupid enough to try and join the group that steered this sinking ship of an expedition. He couldn’t stand the man. Jopson never did anything personally to cause Hickey’s dislike. But it was the obsequience, the sheer fucking brown-nosing that got on his nerves. Hickey had a feeling that if pressure was applied, Jopson would be the first to break. And honestly? Good.

Considering that plans for pressure were already in the works...well, it would be a pity he wouldn’t be able to see Jopson’s face as he realizes idol worship can’t replace simple competence. And so, Hickey lays back, a smile on his face, as he looks up at the tent fabric above them.

“What the devil is happening now?”

Jopson’s grumblings catch his attention. Hickey props himself up on his arms and elbows, looking out of the tent flap to see...nothing. It takes Hickey’s brain a few moments to realize that the ‘nothing’ isn’t nothing. A thick white fog creeps throughout the camp, sneaking into the tent like a chill through a drafty window. Logically, Hickey knows that others are there. He can hear the noise of men outside, swearing, grumbling about the fog, stumbling around. But for a brief moment, it would be easy to imagine that nothing out there existed. Only him, this tent, and Thomas Jopson.

Thomas Jopson who is now looking out into the fog, frown on his face, as if he’ll be able to piece out its purpose by staring at it. Thomas Jopson who’s only lightly holding his rifle.

An opportunity flashes in Hickey’s mind. Find the men, get the guns, get the sledge, leave now. How much longer would this fog last? Might as well accelerate their plans a little bit. It would be foolish to ignore this opportunity, especially since it was presented so perfectly to him. And all he has to do is get that gun away from Crozier’s lapdog.

Carefully, Hickey reaches out, as quietly as he can. This should be easy. The man was a steward, for fuck’s sake. How much strength could Jopson even have? Grab the gun, pull it out of his hands, make his escape. He reaches towards the barrel and not even a second later, feels a hand clasp tightly around his wrist for his troubles. Without any hesitation, he reaches over with his other hand to try again, but gains the same results. Jopson’s hands are tight around his wrists, squeezing as if he could pop a blood vessel just by pressure alone. He sees Jopson open his mouth, about to say something. But not even waiting, taking full advantage of this moment of uncertainty, Hickey lunges forward, intent on pushing Jopson off of him or at least throwing the man off-kilter. Intent doesn’t yield results. There’s some hidden strength in that frame, a fact which Hickey is quickly discovering. And instead of moving forward, Hickey finds himself moving backward, pinned to the ground with a sharp thud.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Jopson hisses. There’s a hint of smugness in his tone that makes Hickey’s blood boil. “Captain Crozier wants you alive for your hanging. He said nothing about you being in one piece.”

The intimacy of the scene isn’t lost on Hickey. Arms pinned down, back against the ground, close enough to a man that you can see him sweat, see the small little flecks of blood around the gum as he snarls down at you. Swap the ground out for a bed and Jopson out for Gibson or some other man, and you’d have a scene Hickey was very used to. 

But was Jopson? If he had to guess, he’d say he was. He certainly looked at Crozier with the eyes of a lover, that yearning to please and to serve that was just so pathetically desperate. Captain’s steward, servicing the captain in all his needs, a perfect little molly-boy to help Crozier relieve the stresses of command. Or, who used to help Crozier relieve the stresses of command. With how badly Crozier had pickled himself, he doubts the captain’s cock got much use these days.

“I’d be careful, Mister Jopson,” Hickey says, as innocent as he can muster. “Man lying on his back like this, other man on top of him. The two of them _close_. It’s easy to get the wrong idea.” In a very purposeful move, Hickey lets his eyes wander, looking down Jopson’s body, before lingering on his cock. Jopson notices.

“I am not Lieutenant Irving, Mister Hickey,” Jopson scoffs. “I’m not the sort of man who turns to Scripture at the mere mention of sodomy. If you’re going to keep trying, try _harder_.” The smugness has shifted to something even more unbearable: boredom. In return, Hickey frowns. If he could find a way to wipe that damn expression off the other man’s face, he would do so.

Shock’s better than boredom. And they’re threatening to hang him anyway. What would they do, hang him twice? Lash him before hanging? He could take the lash: they all knew that already. Acting entirely on impulse and entirely to get rid of that horrible bored expression, Hickey presses himself up and practically forces his tongue in Jopson’s mouth. He can feel the teeth scrape against his tongue and he can feel the disgust practically radiate from the steward. Jopson pulls away, Hickey fixes him with a smug smirk of a smile.

“You said try harder,” he points out, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. His eyes catch a glimpse of the world outside the tent’s flap. Still foggy. Still hidden. In a quick moment of why the hell not, Hickey presses himself up again, forcing himself onto Jopson and once again, forcing his tongue into the other man’s mouth.

This time is different. He feels Jopson’s mouth open as his tongue slips inside. And likewise, he can feel Jopson’s tongue inside _his_ mouth.

Huh.

He wasn’t really expecting that.

Not that he was going to back down, of course.

Hickey pushes himself forward, continuing to kiss Jopson, thrusting his tongue as deep into the other man’s mouth as he can make it. Though his hands are still occupied, a part of him wants to make it very clear which of them is in control. The kiss continues before Jopson pulls away, a small trail of saliva dangling from his lip. There’s an expression on the man’s face that Hickey can’t read. In one moment, it seems sickened. But in another, it seems very lustful. This is a man who obviously doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Good.

“Let go of me and I’ll make it even more worth your while,” Hickey taunts, looking up with a smirk of a smile. And I can grab that gun as well, you sanctimonious fuck.

There’s a pause before Jopson’s expression settles. He can see the mask go up again, a mask that he knows the steward must have practiced during the long months he’s served Crozier.

“No, Mister Hickey,” Jopson says, cooly as ever. “I think I will make it worth _your_ while instead.”

And it’s Jopson’s turn to press down, forcing his tongue into Hickey’s mouth. It’s distracting, but he takes a moment to enjoy it. After all, he hadn’t had any proper time to himself since they walked out. And Billy was always a little too cautious about things like this. Might as well enjoy himself.

He can taste Jopson in his mouth. The man tastes faintly like the tinned tomatoes they had for lunch, with a slightly metallic hint that Hickey suspects is blood. He pushes up, straining against the other man’s grasp. And there we go. One wrist released. Hickey tries to move that hand out of the way, try to reach for that rifle, just a few tantalizing inches out of reach, stopping when he feels Jopson’s foot press down on his wrist instead. It’s not enough to outright hurt him. But it is enough to be inconvenient.

The kiss is abandoned as once again, Hickey strains at his position. He can tell that by moving his foot, Jopson’s bent slightly, contorted like one of those circus acrobats, obviously in an uncomfortable position. The brief moment of wondering why the hell he’s doing that is solved as Jopson’s now free hand goes straight to Hickey’s trousers.

“I cannot stand men like you, Mister Hickey,” Jopson hisses, as he starts to unbutton Hickey’s trousers. “It is not the insubordination, nor the dirtiness.” He can feel Jopson’s fingers idly brush up against his cock and Hickey already knows he’s going to end this encounter spending himself on something, possibly his own trousers. “It is not the fact that you desperately want to be the fucking center of attention.” His smallclothes are pushed back and he feels his prick almost stand at attention as it’s hit by the cold Arctic air. “It is the fact that even with all of that, you remain so _messy_.”

As Jopson’s hand closes around his cock, Hickey stops struggling. The lieutenant starts to work him, hand stroking his shaft, hatred in his eyes as the berating continues. “Did you think that Captain Crozier would take your story about the Netsilik at face value? That he wouldn’t ask Goodsir for an autopsy? He saw right through your attempts at mutilating that corpse.”

The feeling is exquisite. There is no tenderness in Jopson’s touch, no care in those hands, still annoyingly soft despite these past few weeks of hard labor. Those piercing eyes are looking at him with absolute disgust. What Jopson’s doing, Hickey knows he’s doing because at this moment? Hickey has to stay and listen. Though even if he could escape, a part of him simply doesn’t want to.

“And to what end? To stoke fear? To make the men lose confidence?” Hickey feels a moan of pleasure start to bubble up in him and he bites down his lip to prevent it from escaping. Jopson’s hand continues to work him, prick firm and upright in the man’s grasp. “We are alone, Mister Hickey. We only have so many options to help us survive.” Jopson is going at him with a calculated fury that he’s never seen before. There is no technique to the lieutenant’s work, no slow teases or moments of pleasure. This is fast, this is rough, this is a man whose only goal is to work Hickey until he spends himself. “The Netsilik were one of our best chances that you, in your idiocy, have ruined.”

He can feel the pressure building, he can feel the tenseness in his cock, he knows the damn thing’s fit to burst at any moment as it strains against Jopson’s hand, growing harder and harder in the man’s grip—

And then Jopson stops. It’s a sudden stop, as the man’s obviously distracted by something. Probably unintentional but maddening all the same.

“You bastard,” Hickey pants, “at least finish the—”

“Quiet, Mister Hickey,” Jopson interrupts. A silence falls for a moment. There is only the sound of the wind, Hickey’s low and frantic breathing, and...a man laughing. Someone laughing wildly in the distance. Something that he normally wouldn’t pay attention to and especially isn’t going to pay attention to now.

“If you’re not going to finish the job then at least get off of me so I can finish it myself.”

Though he’s obviously distracted by the man laughing, Jopson doesn’t move. It is as if even now, that petty determination to make Hickey stay and listen drives him more than he’ll ever admit. “If you do not quiet your damn mouth,” Jopson growls, “then I will—”

Whatever threat the lieutenant was going to make falls on deaf ears. The laughing continues but is quickly overwritten by a scream of pain. In just a moment, the entire camp is turned on its head as more shouts start to penetrate the fog. Men, with me! Quickly, to the Congreves! Don’t fire until you know it’s there! That damn thing’s back! That bear!

Jopson scrambles to his feet, hand going back to the rifle. Hickey feels the feeling start to come back into his wrist and his leg and, with a little wobble, props himself back up onto his elbows. He looks up at the man at the same time Jopson looks down at him. Hickey knows how he must look: flush, sweating, red in the face, cock out and still so achingly hard. He must look like a wreck. A sodomite, still riding the high of Jopson’s touch, lying there for the taking. What he can’t piece out is if Jopson’s going to take advantage of that situation, stick to his prescribed duty, or run back to daddy Crozier’s side, anxious and willing to help. A little piece of Hickey feels it could go either way. After all, the expression in the lieutenant’s eyes has swapped from disgust to pure and simple lust.

After what feels like an eternity but must be only seconds, Jopson makes his choice.

“Make yourself _decent_ ,” Jopson scoffs. Despite the situation, despite the chaos and the screams of the men, Hickey can see a little gleam of satisfaction in Jopson’s smile. The lieutenant turns on his feet, disappearing into the fog and leaving Hickey, still unbearably hard, alone in the tent.

He’s halfway tempted to rub it out right now, to get it over with before taking advantage of the chaos. But his men are smart. Tozer should be getting the guns and Billy the boat. There shouldn’t be any delays. Hickey pulls his undergarments up followed by his trousers, letting out a hiss of pleasure and pain as his prick strains against the fabric of his clothes. Damn that Thomas Jopson. Hopefully, this would lessen before someone else’s eyes accidentally landed on his cock.

Still throbbing with pleasure, Hickey makes his way out of the tent soon after. He’s got a surgeon to find and a boat to catch-up with. No more hesitation.


End file.
